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have had the steak. It’s good – you won’t be disappointed. Do yourself a favor and get the sour cream and chives mashed potatoes on the side – they’re amazing.”
    He flashed her a smile. “I’ll do that. What are you having?”
    The waitress appeared before she could reply. Steeling herself, Zoe sat a little straighter in her seat and met the woman’s eyes instead of Noah’s. “I’d like one of your gluten-free options,” she said. “The grilled shrimp skewers with rice pilaf and a side salad, please. Italian vinaigrette dressing.”
    “You want me to hold the croutons on the salad, right?” the waitress asked.
    Zoe relaxed a little as a sense of relief settled over her. “Yes, definitely. Thank you.”
    The servers at this restaurant always seemed to know what they were doing, and Zoe had never had reason to suspect that any of the meals she’d ordered here were anything less than 100% gluten-free. Which was exactly why she’d rattled off the name and address of the restaurant as soon as Noah had asked her where she wanted to eat.
    Noah put in his order for steak and potatoes, and as the waitress disappeared, Zoe braced herself for the inevitable.
    “Gluten-free, huh?” Noah asked, like there was some invisible script he was reading.
    Zoe nodded, prepared to say her part, too. “Yeah. I always eat gluten-free. I have celiac disease, so it’s a must.” There, it was out.
    Was it just her imagination, or did Noah’s eyes flicker toward the far corner where the restrooms were located?
    Suppressing a sigh, Zoe did her best to pretend that she didn’t know Noah was probably picturing her doubled over a toilet. General public ignorance: that was the curse of celiac disease. Most people didn’t have a clue what it was, and the majority of the rest only had vague inklings of it being an illness associated with digestive trouble. Ergo, the average person heard “celiac disease” and instantly thought of all the embarrassing problems that might be referenced in a Pepto-Bismol commercial.
    Which wasn’t exactly what she wanted Noah to think of when he thought of her. Not that the notion was even accurate – celiac disease was an autoimmune disorder with over a hundred possible symptoms, most of which had nothing to do with toilets. She barely resisted the urge to blurt that out, not wanting to make things any more awkward than they already were.
    Noah looked like he was about to say something, but the waitress swooped down on them first, depositing a basket of rolls in the center of the table.
    Noah held up a hand. “No thanks. We’ll do without the bread.”
    The waitress nodded and left, taking the basket with her.
    Zoe’s heart skipped a beat. “Do you not eat bread?” For a split second, she entertained a wild fantasy of Noah also being gluten-free, but then she remembered that he’d asked about the chicken parmesan, which was basically a gluten-bomb.
    “I do,” he replied. “But it seems like it would be a dick move to sit here and eat it in front of you when you can’t have any.”
    Forget skipping beats – Zoe’s heart practically stopped, freezing before bursting into a frenzy of activity. Was he serious? “I… No one’s ever done that for me before.”
    “Really?” He seemed genuinely surprised.
    “Really. Most people just… Well, they eat. And eat. And eat. All the things I wish I could, right in front of me.”
    She’d only been diagnosed with celiac disease a year ago, and at first, dining out had always felt like a visit to the seventh circle of hell. Sometimes – namely, when people ate pizza in front of her – it still did. Not being able to eat gluten-containing grains like wheat meant that most dishes were off limits, including almost all of her old favorites. Wheat, she’d discovered over the past twelve months, was added to almost everything .
    “People can be dicks,” he said, and in that moment, a part of her fell instantly and irrevocably in love with